


hang on

by Afueras



Category: Bandom, Placebo
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:05:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afueras/pseuds/Afueras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>short fic inspired by Hang On To Your IQ</p>
            </blockquote>





	hang on

**Author's Note:**

> Set in late WYIN era I guess, '99 or so. Just a short fic I wrote during a few long nights... started out based entirely on Hang On To Your IQ, before spinning off into something I'm not altogether sure of, or happy with. Really I'm just pleased that I finished something. More or less. Enjoy

I wake with a start, eyes wide, flat on my back in the center of a sea of sheets.

The room isn’t hot, but my t-shirt is soaked through with sweat, and limp black curls are stuck to my flushed cheeks.

The sun angles through the window, where I forgot to close the curtains last night. A clock ticks in another room. I stretch and yawn, pulling uncomfortably at my damp sheets, before noticing my phone, face down in the floor.

Frowning, I reach for it. _12 missed calls,_ the screen reads.

Twelve?

I check the call log. One from Steve, the rest from Stefan – who has left me a series of increasingly irate voicemails. Apparently we have publicity today. Fuck.

I rush blindly through showering and shaving, stopping to spend ten minutes levering myself into pants surely meant for someone much smaller than me.  
Suddenly I freeze, on my way out the door. I can’t do this. I can’t face anyone. As hazy as my memory of last night may be, I remember well enough to have a healthy sense of shame. Stefan, my best friend, my sometimes-lover. The lover that lately, I can’t seem to stop turning away.

Shutting the door, I slide down the wall next to it into a sitting position, staring at the phone in my hand as though it has all of the answers.  
It starts to ring again.

Startled, I nearly drop the device before managing to flip it open and bring it to my ear.

“Yeah?”

“Brian it’s _Steve._ Your friend, from your _band._ It’s called _Placebo._ It won’t be called anything if you don’t get your ass here ten fucking minutes ago, understand? Where the hell are you?”

“I, uh… I’m coming, I’m on my way. Right now.”

“Good. Look mate, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I—” 

There is a sudden burst of noise on the other end, and the telltale click of the line going dead. I lower the phone and stare at it, waiting for him to call back.

Five minutes. Still no call.

Shakily I stand and look at myself in the hall mirror, slightly disgusted by what I see. Damp, messy, thinning hair. Bloodshot eyes, bad skin. I know I need to go, but I also know on a deeper level that I can’t show up like this. If I can even show up at all. The prospect of facing my bandmates – one tall, Swedish bandmate in particular – is a daunting one.

Makeup covers my tired face. I comb my hair down fussily and slide sunglasses over my ill-looking eyes. There’s one more thing, though, that I need to do. I can’t bring myself to go out anymore without a little something to… pick me up. Or calm me down, in this case.

 

I try to hurry as I suck in deep drags of the blunt in my hand, window cracked to avoid the smell permeating my flat as much as possible. It already reeks in here.

Taking a swig from an open bottle of vodka on a nearby table, I make a mental note to clean. Sooner or later. On a whim, I fling open all of the windows before I leave, running full tilt down the endless stairs of the building to catch a cab.

 

~*~*~

 

“Brian, where the fuck have you been?” Steve’s voice is deceptively calm. A quick glance around the empty foyer tells me Stefan must already be getting set up somewhere. That, or he’s off making my excuses, like usual, and leaving Steve to do the yelling. Good old Steve.

“I’ve been… sick.”

“Sure you have. Just keep those goddamn sunglasses on. Pull the aloof rockstar, or the bitchy diva, I don’t care, just don’t let them see your fucking eyes. The last thing we need is them to latch on to that.”

I pause, taken aback slightly by Steve’s commandeering attitude. Part of me wants to bitch back at him, but my foggy brain decides it’s not worth it. He’s probably right, anyway. I nod.

“Good. Now c’mon, mate. At least you’ve shampooed in the past week. That’s worth something.”

I say nothing, and he looks at me for a second too long before turning and walking away. I follow like a well-trained dog.

I’ve arrived with seconds to spare, so the stylists don’t get to have a go at me. I’m sure they’re disappointed. Brian fucking Molko, ladyboy extraordinaire.  
They’re always trembling the first time they get close to me. I used to think, with more than a little pride, that they were afraid of a tantrum. Now I know it’s just the moment when they see the amount of work they have ahead.

I’m sitting on a couch with a camera in my face before I even know what’s going on. No going over the questions beforehand on this one, just candid Molko bullshit. The record label’s not going to be happy, but I bet these journalists are.

The interviewer says something I don’t catch.

“Sorry… what?”

A smirk. “I said, Brian, late night? You don’t look too good, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Yes, I do mind, you prick. Or maybe I don’t. I feel like I should, but I can’t muster the energy. I know I’m hesitating too long, but need the moment. Need it to wrap myself in Brian Molko of Placebo, to become someone who can do this.

“I do mind, actually. And it was a late night, thanks. She was French, blonde, and lovely.”

There, that’s good. That’s me. That’s what they want. I feel Steve chuckle appreciatively along with the gleeful interviewer, his laugh vibrating through our legs, shoved close together on the too-small couch. I’m a little closer to him than usual, but he’s not saying anything. He knows why I’m not sprawled on Stefan. He doesn’t know the specifics and doesn’t want to, but he knows enough.

The rest of the interview is a blur. Everything is a blur. The flashbulbs of the cameras afterwards hurt my eyes, even through the sunglasses. I feel dizzy and sick. I need a cigarette. Or the bathroom, that would be better. Yes.

I tell our manager, and she nods vaguely and covers the mouthpiece on her cell phone to say “five minutes.” I don’t bother to reply.

The bathroom is a single room, thank god. I lock the door and dig a small baggie out of my left boot, cutting three lines and doing them with record speed. I piss for good measure, flush, and leave. No one says anything when I finally climb into the car.

Eyes slip closed, head lolling against the window. I wish they would turn on the AC.

 

~*~*~

 

The next promo goes the same way, and the next. I jump through every hoop, kissing ass and saying all of the right things, and smoke a lot of goddamn cigarettes.

As we pull away from the last one, late in the golden afternoon, Stefan grabs my arm. I tense, and don’t turn to face him, but he doesn’t let go. When we get out at the studio, he still has me in a grip nearly tight enough to bruise. The others exchange a few words, but I can’t be bothered. I just want to go home. There’s a blunt on my nightstand, waiting for me. If I can even reach the bedroom. If not, I’m sure there’s one in the kitchen somewhere.

Back to marijuana, just like college, I think randomly. Always back to marijuana, isn’t it. A blunt first thing in the morning and one last thing at night. I self-medicate based on what mood I’m in and what mood I need to be in at any given time, but marijuana is an all-moods type of thing. I really wish Stefan would let go. Whatever he wants, I desperately don’t want to know. I’m tired and itching.

Finally goodbyes are said, and Steve’s farewell hug is followed by a manful slap on the back that leaves me gasping. Stefan’s grip doesn’t loosen.

“We need to talk,” he says, once we are alone on the sidewalk. I squint at him, the evening sun bothering my aching eyes even through the dark glasses.

“Can it wait?”

He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head and turns on his heel, dragging me with him down the street like a naughty child. He’s acting odd today. Now that I think about it, everyone is. Or maybe it’s just me – just my exhausted, overstimulated brain, reaching for things that aren’t there. It wouldn’t be the first time, by any means. I guess the line between being paranoid and being a rock star is smaller than one would expect.

 

~*~*~

 

The restaurant Stefan picks is small and crowded, but lit by stark fluorescent light that makes me squirm. I left my sunglasses on when we came in, not to avoid being recognized, but simply because my head hurts. That, and they act as a barrier of sorts between my bandmate and I.

“Brian? What do you want?” His voice breaks through to me and I look up. The waitress is standing by the table, holding her notepad and smiling uncertainly. I clear my throat and look away.

“I’m not hungry.”

I feel Stefan’s eyes burning through the protective shield of my hair, but he says nothing. I vaguely hear him give his order, like the buzzing of bees, but I don’t notice the waitress has gone until he reaches across the table to grab my hand. I flinch slightly, and he laces his long fingers with my limp ones.

“Brian.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

Do I? Some distant part of me suspects it’s the drugs; it always seems to be the drugs. Except, I haven’t been using. Much. Well, not like I have at times.

Stefan must see my blank look even through the sunglasses, because he removes his hand from mine and leans back, still giving me the x-ray stare he seems to have patented lately.

The table seems clean, so I put my head down on it, resting on my folded arms. The cool plastic surface feels good against my flushed face. I hear Stefan sigh, but it barely registers among all of the other thoughts ricocheting about in my aching skull.

Mustering all of my resolve, I pick my head up and look him in the eye, taking off the glasses.

Our eye contact doesn’t break as the waitress brings his food, doesn’t falter as he takes a few stray bites, doesn’t cease as he pays for the meal he didn’t eat.

Back to my place, then. I see him look around. I see him watch me as I hunt down my weed and light up. I debate with myself for a moment whether offering him a drag would be insulting. Probably not. He could use some relaxation.

He takes the blunt gingerly, out of politeness, I think. When he hands it back, I inhale deeply and hold it until my head swims and my lungs burn, the room moving in a slow spin around me. Everything is good.

“Are we going to talk about your dick?”

My eyes nearly pop out of my head, his words shattering the fog in my mind like brittle glass, leaving me gasping. I can’t do this. Not in a million years. Not even with the blunt in my hand – not with a hundred just like it.

Stefan hears my breaths getting sharper in lieu of a response. I know he hears, but I can’t be bothered to do anything about it. I feel dizzy and more than a little sick.

“Head between your knees, try to get a good breath in,” he says automatically.

What the hell does he think I’m doing? Trying _not_ to get a good breath in? I’m _choking_ and I just want him out of my flat and out of my goddamn business so I can get high in peace, and spend the night chain-smoking and getting nice and stoned, to ease the comedown and maybe get some sleep.

I breathe.

“Did you think I haven’t noticed, Brian?”

Yes. “No, well, maybe, I didn’t think you... fuck… Stefan… get out. Just get the fuck out.”

My words lack venom, and he knows it. I don’t have the capacity to throw the diva fit that might get him out of my flat. Not right now.

I’m sweating badly, even with the windows open. It’s always insufferably warm in here; I keep the heat turned up even in the summer months. Stripping to my underwear is far more appealing than wearing dozens of layers. This is different, though. My shirt is soaked, and the hand holding the blunt is shaking. Stefan plucks it from my fingers and stubs it out in a nearby saucer.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, voice shaking with what I hope sounds like anger, but is really exhaustion and need. I’m jittery from the coke, maybe a little hung over from yesterday, and still a bit spaced-out from the pills I snuck in place of lunch. 

He takes my shoulder and pushes me down on the ragged couch, starting in immediately with typical Stefan bluntness. He may not say much, but when he does, he makes it count.

“You don’t fool around with me anymore. You clearly aren’t having others over, not to this… squalor. You don’t even _flirt,_ not with anyone. When things get too far between us, you push me away, and that’s not you, Brian. We’ve all been worried.”

“We?” I demand, my voice cracking.

“I haven’t told them anything.”

“Then what goddamn reason do they have to be worried?” I try to get up, to attempt to relight that blunt. Or find another. Or some alcohol. Anything.

He pushes me back down. “You’re dead. You don’t _do_ anything anymore. You’re not you.”

I sigh. “Maybe this _is_ me, Stefan.”

Giving me a pointed look, he tactfully says nothing. We sit in silence for a long moment, while the room seems to darken visibly around us with the onset of dusk.

I break the silence first, unable to stand it any longer.

“It’s… I don’t know why, okay? I just… _can’t._ ” My voice cracks again, and I want to hit myself, sounding like a goddamn teenager. I pinch the inside of my thigh, hard.

His voice is softer when he replies. “Brian… you know it’s not your fault. It’s a… physical thing, could happen to anyone. Stress.” I don’t look up, not wanting to hear the compassion in his voice. I don’t want his pity. I don’t want his anything. He knows as well as I do why I can’t get a hard-on, and it’s not fucking stress.

“Drugs, you mean?” I ask flatly. “Don’t tell me that’s not what you’re thinking.”

Our eyes connect for a very long time. The evening is hot, and my clothes are plastered to my skin. I shift, itching and uncomfortable.

Stefan sighs, and reaches to grab my hand. I let him. The sun goes down and leaves us sitting in my dark living room, eyes closed, coming down and waking up.

**Author's Note:**

> god there's a reason I don't do first-person


End file.
